Kill Your Mind
by E. H. Nighthawk
Summary: After Steve wakes up from the ice he's lost with no sense of purpose. Like Steve, Bucky can no longer remember who he is and what his reason for living is. A series of chapters paralleling Steve's and Bucky's emotions pre-Avengers, post-Avengers, and post-Winter Soldier. (Co-written with The Cocky Undead)
1. Mad World

[**Mad World**]

The white was calming; it seeped into his confused mind and numbed the hot friction of thoughts as they rubbed against each other.

His eyes focused on something only he could see as his mind tried to figure out what had happened. His memories brought confusion and then nothing. His eyebrows drew together as he tried to remember and think. He could remember the crushing impact of the plane as the water and ice met it. The nothing was a relief to him after the jarring confusion. Even now his body could still remember the plane shaking. It was disconcerting.

He kept his eyes closed for a moment after waking and let the sounds of the radio and the fan sooth him. He felt alive, and that was more he ever thought he would feel again. It was exhilarating to feel the smooth sheets beneath his fingertips and to breathe in and out, the sheer relief of being alive.

But as he breathed in and out he couldn't get rid of a persistent feeling of wrongness. Something was off, and with that realization he couldn't ignore the sense of danger.

He was tempted to continue to lie in bed, but he never could just let things go.

He stretched out his senses and finally found what was wrong, the radio. It was playing the wrong game.

Why would someone take the trouble to make him feel relaxed unless there was something very wrong?

His mind leapt to Hydra. He assumed they knew he was awake and would be coming. For some reason they wanted him alive, which was enough for him to want to get out of here.

He knew he had to get out and keep running. So he did, knocking over the guards and ignoring how wrong everything felt, because he could figure it out later. So he shoved everything into a corner of his mind and concentrated on getting out of here.

He slowed down as the sounds of a seemly louder and more colorful New York hit him. Everything was clamoring, and the smell was different. Times Square had _changed._ The pictures moved and flashed in his face, and everything was throwing him off-balance, because it matched what he remembered while being differently enough to be uncomfortable. And he didn't understand why.

Men in suits surrounded him. He didn't even know who he should be fighting against, because everything was wrong. It was this more than anything that made Steve listen to the man in the eyepatch even when the man told him he had been asleep for years and his mind told him that was impossible. He should be dead. He'd been ready to die.

_Now what?_

The men, SHIELD his mind supplied, led him to a nondescript white van lined with seats. He sat down automatically not really paying attention to what was going on around him, and leaned his head back on the side of the van closing his eyes.

Everything had changed, and he still wasn't sure whose side he was on.

The blank men sitting across from him on the van's benches stared at him. _Was that natural for them?_

'You've been asleep for almost seventy years.' The words echoed in his mind. He believed them; the evidence was all around him. People dressed differently, cars were smoother, and steel and glass buildings reached into the sky far above him. The comfortable brick and stone buildings had grown smaller as the buildings grew above them. It made him feel small.

He had no reason to distrust the men around him, but he was still scrambling to find some way to relate to the new world.

The world had changed around him, and he didn't know if he could change fast enough to catch up with it.

* * *

As he stepped out of his front door his shoulders tensed up. He knew that he should get out of his apartment and face the world. He'd never been good with being alone, and that still hadn't changed even after being asleep for years.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, and started to walk down the sidewalk. People bumped into his shoulders and pushed by him, so many people. The differences in their clothing and in the buildings were off-putting. Everything screamed wrong at him and reminded him just how far he was from familiar.

After he gave into his impulse to stare at the buildings surrounding him, he felt almost engulfed by the skyscrapers. He felt like a tourist. Even though he lived in New York his whole life, he still stared like he was there for the first time; in a manner of speaking he was. The sheer size and movement of the city was amazing.

And if he was honest, slightly intimidating. He could pretend he was in another city, and that New York wasn't his city, but every so often something familiar hit him with the inescapable fact that he was in New York and somehow 70 years in the future where the unfamiliar blended with the familiar.

He cocked his head and paused. He could hear something barely there as if it was whimpering or at the end of its strength. Suddenly a cry for help shot through the crowd. "SOMEONE HELP ME! PLEASE!" The desperation in the voice struck him as it always did.

But it didn't strike anyone else; the crowd barely paused. A few glanced up from their cell phones (Steve was still getting used to the idea of portable phones) before the phone's screen grabbed their attention again. The message was clear. Not my business.

Steve's face hardened. Not that much had changed after all. People were still afraid to stand up, and finally the world snapped into focus. For the first time since waking up, this was familiar, and he forced his way through the crowd, his movements sure.

The voice fell mostly silently groaning weakly as dull thuds came from an alley; the sound of it twisting his stomach. Steve ran faster.

Men surrounded a miserable heap by the side of the alley. One looked up as Steve's shoes scrapped the pavement at the alley's entrance.

He said, "Move along," as his eyes never left Steve's. The threat in those eyes made Steve smile inwardly. He had met it many times before.

Steve met the man's gaze.

"How about you walk away?" Steve replied. The heap on the ground twitched, and Steve's eyes shifted towards it. He tilted his head carefully to the side his gaze penetrating the man. "And I let you go."

Everyone was listening now.

The one who had spoken laughed. "Is this guy for real?" His friends laughed harder. He dismissed Steve with a wave and turned back toward the heap. "Go back to playing hero. The real world doesn't have a place for you." Steve's eyes hardened and he stepped farther into the alley.

The men were not expecting that and actually took a step back before they realized how many they had against him. Steve smiled. They could count, not that it would matter; the outcome would be the same.

Steve stopped and shifted his feet for better balance, his whole attention on the fight ahead, because what they were doing was brutal and must be stopped.

'_Might does not make right.' _

The kid on the left bounced up and down, his shoulders and hands twitching. Steve watched the kid's eyes for where and when he will move. The others were confident in their ability to beat him, but the kid? He had something to prove.

The eyes blinked rapidly before steadying. The kid was going to rush him. The forward motion was in the eyes before the kid's foot touched the ground, and Steve blocked the blow before smashing the kid's face into the side of the alley. The twitchy kid crumpled.

The casual and easy way Steve moved gave the others pause before indignation took over. The kid on the ground was their friend, and no one had the right to beat him up.

_It just gives you an excuse to do what you want, because no one will stand up against you for what is actually right. _

The rest had stopped smiling.

One grabbed a knife from his pocket and flicked it open; he jabbed it at Steve while his friends circled Steve for an opening. Steve smashed his elbow into the knife wielder's wrist. It broke with a snap that made the man gasp in pain. Then Steve punched the man in the face, and as he stumbled backward blind and confused, Steve hit him again. He wasn't getting up.

_You are wrong. _

Steve balanced lightly on his feet.

The scrapped of a boot behind Steve was the first warning Steve had before the one behind him tried to punch him in the kidneys. Steve spun to the side and kicked the man's knee in causing it to buckle the wrong way. The man fell clutching his knee groaning.

_Because might doesn't make right._

Steve looked at the last man standing, the one who had spoken, and the threat in the eyes was gone, instead the eyes held an emotion Steve was sure the man was unused to: fear.

"You have two choices," Steve stated, "You could run and save yourself a broken hand, or you could stay and break your hand. " Steve felt his knuckles tighten and shrugged, "I'm good with either."

The man stumbled backward and scrambled to his feet before running.

'_Right makes might.'_

Steve watched him go. "Good choice." The other men he left moaning on the ground as he walked over to the heap. He knelt by it and turned the body over. It (or rather she) groaned. She was too badly beaten to do more than dazedly blink at him. He gently picked her up and carried her out.

* * *

Mike was having a surreal day. Captain America was walking before him. The name itself was enough to bring back fond memories of his childhood, but the fact that Captain America was walking before him made him faint with excitement, a fact he was trying to ignore. His professional face was all he showed.

He was after all following Captain America.

Mike stopped beside a store's window as Captain America paused to look at a car in a showroom. He tapped his ear and said, "Agent Wilson reporting in."

"Base hears you. Go on."

"He is at the corner of Lincoln and first. Nothing's happening; he's just looking at things."

"I understand. Continue to follow him."

Mike grunted, and he paused before continuing. "Base…what is the reason for this?"

"Fury's orders."

Mike was silent for a moment. That was all she really needed to say. Fury was a paranoid bastard, and everyone knew that.

"Copy that. Wilson out."

Captain America disappeared into an alley up head. Mike casually walked over. When he realized what was happening, he tapped his ear again.

"Base?"

"We're listening, Agent Wilson."

"We are going to need an ambulance here."

* * *

By the time Steve had reached the entrance of the alley, the ambulance lights were flashing in his face, and EMTs were rushing a gurney over to him.

"Put her here, sir." One of them ordered Steve. Steve carefully laid her down, and then the gurney was moving. Steve stared after them.

"Here, sir." Steve looked around sharply at the voice. A black suited man was motioning to him. "We have to get you home."

"How do you…." Steve stopped realization dawning. "You're with SHIELD."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you following me?" His voice was steady, but there was a shift in it. Battle lines had been drawn. The man nodded.

"For how long?"

"We never lost you." Mike kept his face professional as a vein in his temple twitched nervously.

Steve regarded him silently and then turned to walk away.

He was a soldier, and he obeyed commands, but he never liked over controlling commanders or manipulation. He didn't know if he could trust them in return.

He didn't know if he wanted to.

The reality shifted out of focus again.

* * *

Steve strode into SHIELD headquarters prepared for war. The receptionist's mouth gapped open as he walked up to her. "I'd like to see Director Fury."

Her mouth snapped shut, and she picked up the phone. "D-Director Fury? " She looked at Steve disbelievingly as she said. "I have Captain America here to see you."

She nodded and set the phone down staring at it for a moment.

Steve shifted impatiently; her eyes snapped over to him. "You can go right up."

And he did, gathering his anger until it was a focused sharp sword. When he opened the door instead of throwing it up like he wanted to, he was fully in control of the white hot rage.

Fury looked up, and Steve supposed he should give the man points for not flinching when Steve walked in the room.

Steve stood at attention in front of Fury and didn't say anything. He didn't need to; Fury knew why he was here.

Fury sat back regarding Captain America with a passive face. "I don't think you see the threat you pose to the civilized world." Fury said deliberately. "Years after your disappearance millions were spent searching for the super-soldier serum, lives were lost, experiments failed."

Fury leaned forward. "Now that you're back, what do you think is going to be on certain peoples' mind?" He paused, "I don't like those odds."

Steve almost snorted. He didn't, because that would be too juvenile. "Are you saying following me was for my protection?"

"You're dangerous, Rogers, and in more ways than one. I don't know if the iced messed you up. Hell, I don't know you."

Steve raised an eyebrow, "That's bullshit, and you know it, _sir._ I think you're scared. I think you don't like someone you can't control."

"Do I look scared?" Fury asked sarcastically. He looked warningly at Steve. "I didn't get to be the head of a spy organization by trusting people. Paranoia is my job. Get used to it."

Steve didn't say anything. There wasn't really anything he could say. Fury made himself clear. He turned around to go and paused at the door. "You shouldn't put your trust in your paranoia; you should put your trust in people." He let the door shut behind.

…..

Wilson pushed the transmitter's call button. "He's sitting on a park bench….drawing." He released the button. Honestly, enough was enough. What was he, Mike, still doing here? Captain America knew he was there. The casual glances in Mike's direction convinced him of that fact. This was bull.

Joggers passed his park bench.

He glanced over to Captain America and saw him scribbling desperately in a note book. The desperation caught at Wilson; what could make an American hero who had gone through a world war and the Great Depression so despairing?

* * *

Steve sat hand poised over a notebook. He stared at a tree noting the way it twisted and turned in the sky and the patterns of light and dark that speckled its bark. It was alive and moved. The moment of looking at it filled his mind and calmed his thoughts as he focused on it. His feelings of confusion and frustration filled his hands, and he drew with harsh dark lines. The pencil marks nearly tore through the paper.

Her folder sat in his apartment silent on his table. It dominated his imagination. His fingers hurt as he gripped the pencil harder; the memory of a glossy paper with her picture on his fingers.

_She's not here_, and a future with her can never be. His hand came down hard on the paper.

Why couldn't he have been faster? Or died the first time around? It would have been better than imagining something that can never be. _Imagining, more like tormenting_.

His eyes focused on the paper; in his eyes the feelings of loss usually buried behind distractions came to the surface and shimmered.

Darkened branches filled the page. A part of Steve that wasn't focused on his emotional turmoil liked the way the drawing was turning out. He could feel the emotions in the picture.

His heart and stomach felt empty as if he had taken the confusion and frustration from them and poured them onto the paper. He felt better.

The drawing was finished.

* * *

He couldn't stand the emptiness of the apartment anymore. Dusk was drifting over the sky and spread its shadow over New York. The key sat cold in his hand as he locked the door and turned to walk down the hall. Evening thrust its way into the hallway and laid heavy over Steve's eyes turning the atmosphere sleepy.

Talking was out of place; the very idea of speaking made his mouth unwilling. The motion of his legs and the ground as his feet hit it grew into the background. He clenched his fists in his pockets for lack of something better to do with them.

He still felt out of focus.

Restlessness demanded him move, but with each step his disquiet shifted and clenched.

Harder and harder his feet hit the pavement until he was running, speeding past people with the wind whipping past his eyes. The world narrowed to the movement of his body and the rushing of the wind.

* * *

"Shit." Wilson muttered as he tried to keep up with Captain America.

Panting he stopped and pressed the call button. "Base, I lost him. He's gone."

* * *

Steve didn't know how long he ran or even where he ran; the sense of running towards something, of having a purpose to run to, was intoxicating, but it came to an end too soon for Steve.

The corner he turned was a dead end, and Steve stopped himself with his hands just before he hit the wall. He stood like that before he crumpled to his knees.

He didn't know why he was reacting like this or what he was feeling; the seething wall of emotion was overpowering. And it was growing.

His chest heaved.

He clenched his fists and everything out. "WHY?" He screamed.

* * *

"He goes around, beats people up, and draws. That's all. It's making me depressed. Sir, he is self-destructing without a purpose. You have to give him a purpose or else we are going to lose him."

Fury leaned back his fingers tapping a thick file on his desk thoughtfully. Wilson caught the words Avenger Initiative printed in bold across the front of it. He shifted his eyes away from it. Fury must be really unsettled if he left it out where Mike could see it.

He shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

"Sir?"

Fury looked up, "Your analysis is noted."

Wilson waited.

Fury raised an eyebrow, "You're dismissed."

Long after Wilson left his office Fury sat tapping the folder a thoughtful look on his face.

* * *

Abraham Lincoln, Address at Cooper Institute. **See if you can find the quote.**

**First of all I want to say I'm sorry about the length of time it's taken me to post. I told myself that I wasn't going to be the author who didn't post for years and then suddenly starts again when the readers have lost interest. So, I'm sorry...to any readers I might have left.**

**But the good news is that I'm on the last chapter and just need to finish the last scene before I post. **

**I decided that I needed to rewrite some scenes and polish off some others, which is one of the reasons why I've taken so long (that and I was having trouble with starting some of the chapters). **

**Sorry about any mistakes.**

**And these characters aren't mine. **


	2. Lane Boy

**[Lane Boy]**

"_Bucky, no!"_

His eyes blinked open slowly. Bright lights assaulted him, making it painful to fully focus on his surroundings. He squeezed his eyes shut again, grimacing.

Bucky didn't know where he was or what was going on.

What he did know, however, was that he was still alive, which was a surprise for him. In those fleeting moments right before he hit the side of the mountain he knew that he was a dead man. No one could survive a fall like that.

But, apparently he could.

He shifted slightly on the hard cot that he was lying on. Bucky strained his memory as he tried to remember what had happened after he had hit the mountain. Nothing. He was met with an annoyingly blank set of memories.

His left arm twitched slightly at his side, pulling him from his thoughts. Just like that, Bucky suddenly remembered it all. He remembered Steve calling his name, falling, being dragged through the snow, his left arm bloody and half missing.

A burning in his arm, which had been a dull throb when he first woke up, suddenly spiked and Bucky's eyes flew open again.

A small, bald man, with round glasses stared down at him filling his vision, a pinched smile on his face. "Sargent Barnes."

Bucky glared at the man without speaking. He would have held his gaze, but the burning in his arm demanded to be felt, and he tore his eyes away from the small man to his arm. Silver metal met his gaze, and Bucky felt his chest tighten with both pain and fear. His entire left arm was encased in metal. It looked wrong lying against the white sheet that covered his body. Hell, it didn't just look wrong, it felt wrong. Because that was the thing, Bucky could _feel_it. He felt the metal like it was part of his body, because now it was.

He swung his gaze back around to meet the eyes of the bald doctor. Bucky struggled to hide the emotions that he was sure were plain to see on his face.

"It's a shock, I'm sure." The man said to Bucky in what was supposed to be a sympathetic voice. "Don't worry, the pain should fade with time." He gave Bucky a thin smile, which did nothing to alleviate Bucky's fears.

A man in a white coat hovered at Bucky's side, a clipboard clutched in his hands. He saw that Bucky was awake and leaned over him, taking small notes.

Mistake, Bucky thought grimly. His metal arm obeyed his command and snatched the unfortunate man's neck in a tight grip.

The man choked and struggled in Bucky's immovable grasp. It wasn't until someone stabbed Bucky with a needle that immediately started to put him to sleep did he let go.

Bucky's eyes hazily moved back to the bald man, who smiled again and said. "You are to be the new face of Hydra."

Bucky's vision darkened, but not before he heard: "Put him on ice."

When he woke again, he couldn't remember anything. Not his name, not where he was, not what he was. Nothing.

He was surrounded by men in white coats and sometimes grim looking men with guns. He felt weightless as they did their tests on him, talking among themselves in excited whispers.

He didn't know what his purpose was, though he felt like he should be doing something. He was useless if he didn't have a purpose, this much he knew.

"Hey, eyes on me." Fingers snapped in front of his face, forcing him to focus on the suited man, who crouched before him. "Listen up, soldier, I'm sure you're feeling a little lost right now, but I need you to relax. We're going to show you the way. We're going to give you a purpose." He gave him a smile that seemed forced.

He nodded slowly because he knew that's what the suited man expected of him. He didn't know what was coming next, but at least now he had a reason and a purpose. That had to count for something.

The man had called him soldier. Perhaps that was his name and occupation now. Soldiers followed orders; they had purpose. They created order and sometimes chaos. He wondered which he would be ordered to do; chaos or order.

**A/N: Thank you cairistiona7 for reviewing! I appreciate it, and my sister does too.**


	3. Renegade

**[Purpose] **

Steve enjoyed the rush of wind on his face as he drove away from the other avengers. With Loki in Asgard and the Tesseract locked in its vaults the world looked cleaner and he felt as if a burden he was so used to carrying had been lifted. The freeing relief made him want to run for sheer joy; he didn't though, instead he set out determined to become comfortable with this new world.

* * *

"Sir, I don't know where Rogers is." Mike spoke into his earpiece.

"Could you repeat that?"

Mike closed his eyes, "He's not at his apartment, and he didn't trip any of the alarms when he left."

The silence over the earpiece was telling.

"He's gone."

* * *

Distance.

Miles and miles of land spread around him as the blacktop curved its way through the dust and the dirt. The road lay on top of the land as a foreign thing, set there for a time but never permanent. It was crust on a centuries old land.

Open sky took up half Steve's view and rocks the other half. It felt as if Steve could run forever; the sky wasn't hedged in with trees, and only mountains limited it as they jutted out into the vast blue.

The country was wild and half-tamed by cattle signs and straight fences.

Steve could feel the heat settling in his lungs as he breathed in the sun baked air. His whole body rebelled at the idea of moving in this heat. He drank some water from a Nalgene he brought from his bike's saddlebags. It seemed infinitely more precious now that the harshness of the land reminded him of its value. Life fought itself here, struggling to survive, but shot through with a rough joy. The struggle showed how good it was to live. Priorities were different here with the polish worn down, and comfort was food, drink, and a warm place to sleep. It didn't matter what kind of food or how soft the bed.

Survival had a way of stripping down everything unnecessary so that you were confronted with the truth of who you are.

Steve knew who he was, but change made him question himself. The friends he lost made him feel like there were pieces missing, leaving only empty space inside him. He didn't quite know himself anymore.

Steve put the water back in his bags and got back on his bike. He started the engine before pulling out onto the road.

His motorcycle ate up the miles and the road beneath wound through the country and small towns. The roar of other motorcycles behind him caused his hair on the back of his neck stand up; the wind rushing past his ears made any other sound loud enough to be heard startling. The motorcycles' sound increased until the bikers were right behind him. It was enough to make Steve want to wave a hand to say go on ahead of me or flip them the birdy if he was less polite.

The motorcycles rode on his tail until the time came that they had to do something, because they were too impatient to wait any longer. The biker line streamed past him, and one in passing held up a finger. _Great. Nice to meet you too. Goodbye. _

The feeling left behind by the bikers was gone by the time Steve turned into a motel. The sky was streaked with red.

Steve had read the Iliad one winter during 1931. The library was warmer than the streets outside, and he was tired of trying to stay warm. "Rosy-fingered Dawn" was a line that struck him with its vividness. It was appropriate now with the sun reaching its red fingers far across the sky; except it wasn't dawn, it was evening. Still the streaks of red and orange reminded Steve of that line. It had been a long time since he had read it (more than 70 years), but that line had fit into his mind like his mind was made with it missing and when found, it stuck with him.

The growing darkness chased away the rosy fingers as Steve watched.

The motel was nothing special and the dark gathering around merely hid its blemishes caused by passing time, but Steve was tired enough not to care about the peeling paint and tired atmosphere. The door chimed as he walked through, and a small Mexican woman looked up from the front desk. She looked passively at him. Steve got the feeling she was scowling on the inside. "The room is $100 per night."

Steve wondered if that was expensive for today. "Sure, that'll be fine. Thanks. "

He peeled a few bills from his wallet and signed in to his room.

The room was the same as millions across the country; Steve could swear he had seen it 70 years ago when traveling with his show during the war. The bed neatly made, and the room impersonal.

With so many people sleeping there, it was no surprise the room felt as if their ghosts had lingered long enough to make sure you didn't feel comfortable enough to treat the room as anything besides a motel room. Steve set his soft leather bag down and lay down on the bed. The soft mattress felt wonderful after the hours of buzzing wind and his bike's vibrations running through his body.

He must have dozed off; the room was dark and his stomach was growling when his eyes opened again. Groaning he sat up and stretched. His muscles popped and his body relaxed into a half-awake haze. His eyes felt fuzzy, and he rubbed them irritably.

His stomach growled again.

He grabbed his jacket off the chair and walked out the door before he could change his mind about facing the world and all the people in it while he felt half asleep and unable to interact. He would wake up soon enough and he didn't need to say anything besides what he wanted to eat and drink.

The town he stopped in was no bigger than a few neighborhoods and a main street. The sign welcoming him to the town had read Lander, WY, population: 7,732. To Steve it was just above the kind of town that was mentioned on the map because it had a gas station. The people living here would deny that and compare their town to the next place over, which wasn't mentioned on the map and had a population of exactly three, four if you were counting during Christmas. _Compared to that, this place was a metropolis_. Steve thought sarcastically.

Main Street had a few places to eat; the main ones being a Mexican restaurant and a bar. Steve didn't feel like rice and beans so he turned to the bar.

Gannet Grill filled the entire brick building with outside seating along its left side. It stood apart from all other buildings and was separated into one side for families, while the other side was the actually bar. Motorcycles lined the sidewalk of the bar reminding Steve horses tied up in front of a western saloon when laws where enforced by might and sometimes the law of the tyrant ruled instead of the law of the just.

Steve shook off that feeling. This wasn't the west, and not everyone who had motorcycles was a hulking man used to having their own way. He had a motorcycle, and Stark would say that he was the farthest person from enforcing by might. He did what was right because it was right.

The door swung shut behind him as he walked into the bar section of the place. The bar was filled with bikers and one or two families having a night out. Bikers crowded around the bar filling it with loud laughter and the thunk of glasses being slammed down.

Steve made his way over to the bartender and leaned against the bar. The bartender wandered over to him. "What can I get you?"

"A meal."

The bartender laughed. "We have that. Burger? Fries?"

"Sounds good."

"Anything to drink?"

Steve thought for a moment. Not that there was much point to having a beer if he couldn't actually feel it. "I'll have a Guinness." That one was at least familiar.

Steve found a seat by one of the families. As he leaned back he closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall.

The sounds of the bar merged into memories of his old team, with the clink of glass and the smell of beer and smoke providing a background; the sounds were the same in any time. He didn't think of one memory in particular, but the general feeling of contentment and being with friends; friends' faces and the feeling he associated with them came into his mind. He couldn't quite believe that they were gone no matter how often he visited their graves. They were still young and alive in his mind. He missed them with a sharp ache that hurt physically.

His food was set down with a clatter making him start.

"Thank you."

As he started to eat raucous laughter came from the bar and a biker with long hair staggered away beer in hand laughing. Steve tensed. Only those who knew him would have noticed it.

_He might not be a bully._

A boy from the table next to him stood up and started for the restroom, his dad a few seconds behind. Unfortunately their path crossed the drunken biker's.

The little boy didn't look where he was going in his hurry to get to the bathroom and his dad was a little too slow to stop him before he ran into the biker.

The biker spilled his beer on himself, and the little boy stumbled backward. His dad grabbed a hold of him protectively. The biker growled. The little boy's eyes widened.

_Then again he might be a bully_, Steve thought.

"Sorry about that." The dad started to say.

"You better be.

The biker stepped up to the dad's face in the usual aggressive alpha mode. Steve rolled his eyes.

Steve stood up, and everyone's eyes shot over to him.

"The boy didn't mean to run into you. Just let it go."

"You planning on making me?" The biker said.

The man was looking for a fight so desperately he was willing to fight over a tiny thing; either that or he had pride issues.

"If I have to."

"If I have to." The biker mocked him.

The biker raised his hands to shove at Steve, and as he was coming forward Steve pivoted out of the way.

The rush of adrenaline made his heart beat faster and his movements quick. The biker's momentum continued forward, and as he was stumbling forward Steve grabbed his head, swung behind him, and locked the biker's head in place with his other arm.

Each moment felt fast and slow at the same time; he knew he was moving fast and that was making everyone else look slow. Steve twisted the man to the ground and hit him to keep him down.

He backed up breathing evenly.

The fight seemed to last for hours in Steve's mind, but the whole thing took three seconds.

Silence.

It overpowered everyone's ability to speak and left them afraid to open their mouths to break it. He sat back down and started to eat, because food was food and he was still hungry.

The family was shocked at the violence and speed he showed. They hadn't processed what just happened.

Neither had the group by the bar. Their laughter had stopped, and a few looked at their friend who was on the floor moaning. Steve wasn't sure the silent peace would last.

The biker stumbled to his feet after he pulled himself to his knees; he shook his head as if that would help clear the daze. Steve knew from experience that shaking it only made it worse even if the act of shaking it made you feel like as if you were doing something.

With a sidelong glance at Steve, Steve couldn't tell whether it was to make sure Steve stayed where he was or to wonder where that aggression came from, the biker crept back to his gang; the loud swagger he had before was noticeable lacking its voice.

"_Full of sound and fury/ Signifying nothing." _

Steve stood up again, walked over to the bartender and pulled out a ten. He grabbed his food and started walking out the door. He didn't really want to spoil the moment with talking.

"Thanks." The little boy said as Steve turned to the door.

Steve gave him a smile.

As he sat on his bed in the motel room afterwards the quiet made him think. There was no noise to distract him. The unsettled feeling of the world shifting out of focus was missing. Steve no longer felt as his foot had come down on air when he had been excepting firm ground.

The empty places that ached felt a little better now that he wasn't looking inward and dwelling on them; the pain was older and more bearable as if the layers were knitting themselves back together.

His sense of loss was healing.

The silence no longer bothered him, because he knew where he stood in the world.

He didn't like bullies not before and certainly not now, but he didn't have to face them alone just as he didn't have to face this unfamiliar world alone. His friends were dead, but that didn't mean he had to turn into an empty body that lived only because it moved. New friends could ease the ache if he let them.

The leather bag was smooth in his hand as he walked to his bike the next morning. He kicked the ignition of his motorcycle and it started with a roar the gradually grew louder until it settled into a deep-throated growl. He pulled onto the highway back to New York and set himself against the rising sun, with his mind quiet and only the rush of movement to fill it.

Purpose.

He was running again but was no longer running away from something; he was running towards something.

* * *

**Thanks for everyone's patience, and cairistiona7, keep your wonderful reviews coming. They are really encouraging for my sister and I. **


	4. Long, Long Way From Home

**[Long, Long Way From Home]**

His mission was simple; they usually were. He had been given a photo and a name, but no time limit; it was assumed he knew his job well enough to know that he was to complete the mission as soon as possible.

He was sitting in the back of a military plane, his back pressing against the cold metal. His face was free of his usual mask and goggles, and the men that had been assigned to him and his mission kept giving him interested looks from their seats opposite of him.

He breathed out slowly and carefully, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

After a few moments, the soldiers struck up a quiet conversation, thankful that the Winter Soldier was apparently asleep.

"Any idea where they're taking us?"

"No clue. You know how it is. They never tell us."

"But, _he _knows, right?" It was the first voice again. He sounded young; this was probably one of his first missions.

There was a faint thump of one of his fellow soldiers whacking the kid on the arm.

"Of course he does." They lowered their voices. "He is the only one with all the info and he will let us know what we have to do and when we have to do it."

A faint smile played on his lips, but he felt no amusement. He shifted slightly, twitching his hand on his lap.

That shut up the whispered conversation. "Shit. I think he's awake." The young kid again.

"Shut up."

Xxx

Blinding sun poured into the black back of the plane. The soldiers blinked and cursed, rubbing their streaming eyes.

He, however, hardly even twitched against the bright sun. Yes, it burned, but other things burned more. He stood up, rifle on his back and made his way to the exit, he glanced behind him at the men.

"Get your gear on. Our mission starts immediately." He spoke in Russian, feeling the men prickle under the language.

A uniformed man ran up to the plane ramp, halting when he caught sight of the Winter Soldier. He swallowed slightly, but waved for him to step down.

He did just that, stopping in front of the new man.

"I'm Captain Anders." The captain seemed hesitant to shake his hand or even of how to act.

"And?" He asked, switching to English like Anders.

"We've got news from DC. They said to let you know that an agent is being sent to transfer and protect the professor. At this very moment the agent is on her way to pick him up."

"You know their route?" He asked, his eyes drilling hole into Anders.

Anders shifted his gaze from those piercing blue eyes to somewhere on his nose or mouth, a safer place to stare at. "Yes, we've set up mines that will blow the trucks off track. You will be as far away as you need and can take the man out at your leisure." Anders trailed off uncomfortably when he got no response from the Winter Soldier. "I was told you prefer to be at a distance."

He nodded, eyeing the other man; he was too nervous. He would probably need to deal with Anders after he completed this mission. Of course, he would call it in to see if his assessment of Anders was valid.

He could feel the men behind him, standing hesitantly on the ramp of the plane, unsure of what they were meant to do.

He turned to them speaking in rapid Russian. "This is mine. I won't need you." He nodded to Anders who looked up in confusion. "Watch him; I may need to take care of him when I return."

Xxx

From his position on the flat rock, he could see a faint plume of dust kicked up where the trucks were making their way to him.

His hand roved over his gun, absently checking it to make sure it was ready. But he needn't have worried; his rifle was the first thing that was ready.

His face was hot and sweaty underneath its mask, and the rest of his body was slowly baking in its black suit. He mildly wondered how hot his metal arm would be if he touched it with bare skin.

Sternly he brought his mind back to his mission. He eyed the trucks through his scope, watching as they neared his range and where he knew the mines were hidden.

He knew that if he was normal, he would be feeling a swirl of emotions. Fear and nervousness should be heavy in his stomach, but it wasn't. He felt nothing. He always felt nothing. He couldn't remember if he had ever felt any sort of emotion; if he had it had been taken away from him. Just like his name and whole identity.

He carefully took his hands away from his gun before taking a deep, clear breath. These thoughts weren't good for him. He needed to focus on the mission and only the mission. He gripped his rifle again and pressed the butt against his shoulder, leaning his head down to the scope.

He counted under his breath, watching the trucks near the mines.

When he reached one, the first truck exploded sending the rest behind it swerving. A second truck wasn't lucky and it skidded into another mine, disappearing in a flash of fire.

The remaining truck jerked to a halt, smoke pouring from under the hood. Its occupants streamed from the cab.

He easily found his target and almost tightened his finger over the trigger, but a red-haired woman covered his target, a pistol in her hand.

She shifted with his target, not giving him a clear shot.

He smirked slightly; she was damn good. Even as she covered her man, her eyes scanned the areas looking for other threats. Looking for him.

For a moment, she stared straight at him and he wondered if she had seen his scope flash in the sun.

A burst of annoyance flared up in him; he was done waiting for her to make a mistake; it probably wasn't going to happen.

He lined up his sights, took a slow breath, releasing it gradually as he squeezed the trigger.

There was a small kick from the rifle, but he hardly felt it. He watched through his scope as the woman dropped, blood spurting from her gut. His target, a smaller man, fell beside her, blood pouring from his chest.

He felt a moment of pride before lining his target's head and putting another bullet in him to finish the job.

Xxx

Back at the airstrip, his men were playing a game of cards with Captain Anders. The captain seemed to have calmed down quite a bit, but the Soldier had called in his question about Anders and had received an affirmative.

The group of soldiers caught sight of him, all rising; their cards scattered and forgotten.

Anders strode toward the Winter Soldier, his temporary confidence disappearing. "It all went well, I hope?"

He didn't reply, his hand going down to his holster. He brought his Glock out and put two bullets in Anders; head and chest.

Anders didn't even have a chance to cry out. A surprised look was etched on his face as he toppled backward.

"Clean this up." The Winter Soldier said. "We're leaving."

**I'm blaming the long delay for this chapter on my sister.**

**ErinKenobi2893: Thank you for your review! I'm really glad you liked it, and I know what you mean about driving or walking. Sometimes moving is the best way to find some peace.**

**cairistiona7: I love your reviews! They show me parts of the story I hadn't considered before. I didn't realize that Steve went wes**


	5. No Rest for the Wicked

[**No Rest for the Wicked**]

Steve knew this fight would end bloody.

"Don't move or Agent Barton dies."

He just hoped it wouldn't.

This was the first time the agent in charge spoke to Steve, and the image Steve had of fighting against a shapeless villain faded away leaving a very real one in its place. He dropped his fist to his side and turned around dreading to look.

Agent Hue had Clint at gunpoint.

He wasn't sure why the Triskillian was being attacked or why some SHIELD agents seemed to be on the other side. He had been eating lunch with Clint in the building's cafeteria when the alarms started, the ones that warned of an attack.

The attackers focused on a data base filled with agents' identities and mission reports, the kind of reports that could kill.

They didn't figure on Steve and Clint going John McClain on them. They had even climbed through some air ducts, which Clint insisted was absolutely necessary.

Steve supposed that this would be the moment where the hero of the movie pulls out his gun and saves the day, but reality was different from an action story that Clint had Steve watch. It was messy and complicated and filled with choices.

One of his nightmares had come to life with such clarity that he felt as if he was shifting between dream and reality. He had dreamt this again and again with many different people and in many different situations. The dream settled over reality and all that was left was the cold gun pointing at Clint's head.

The fear of loss battled his need for doing the right thing. He'd lost so many of his friends already, and the holes they left still hurt. Physical pain was easy compared to this twisting of emotion and of loss: what to do when someone's life was in your hands?

The Asian agent sneered at Steve's compliance, "You don't have what it takes to make the hard choices."

_I don't want to make the hard choices; I want to make the right one._

The agents behind Steve grabbed him, and he was forced to his knees. His mind raced through all possibilities and each one ended with Clint dead, because Steve couldn't move fast enough to stop the bullet.

Steve knew the only reason they were still alive was because Hue still needed them before he geared himself up to shooting them.

Hue kicked the back of Clint's knees in and stood behind him while Clint fell to his knees with a grimace. "I want you to reverse what you did to the computer." Agent Hue cocked his gun. "Need I say what happens to birdman if you don't."

Clint growled at the name. "It's Hawkeye, you asshole."

Hue pistol-whipped Clint. "Did I ask for your input?"

Clint slowly looked at Hue, the anger in his eyes and the red mark on his check prominent.

Steve winced, but he couldn't help Hue either. Thousands of SHIELD agents in thousands of different operations would be compromised, and helping Hue wouldn't stop Hue from killing Steve and Clint. The danger the two of them posed was too great for Hue to ignore.

"I'll break the code eventually. You're only delaying me."

That was a lie. Hue needed higher clearance to get through the firewall Clint initiated, unless he had a hacker in his group.

And even if Hue let them live Steve couldn't forget or forgive himself if he let Hue leave with SHIELD's information. Too many lives were at stake.

_What was the right choice?_

Steve shifted on his knees and stalled as best he could. Real SHIELD agents should be coming soon. "Why do you want that information? You know what happens if it gets into the wrong hands."

Hue grinned, "Whose hands are wrong is a matter of perspective."

Steve growled, "You've left a trail of bodies. I think you've made it clear that any hand you put SHIELD's information in is going to be wrong and has nothing to do with perspective. You don't care about people."

"I care about people, but why should I care about people who don't care about me? What my employer does with the information is going to work out to the good of me and the people I care about."

His employer? Who was Hue working for?

Hue pressed the gun into Clint's head. "Anyway, as interesting as this conversation is I want that code." Clint glared, his body was ridged.

Steve stiffened.

"Don't do it, Steve." Clint said.

Hue sighed and hit Clint in the back of the head, "Again, did I ask for your opinion?"

Clint pushed himself off the floor swaying as he got back up. His eyes looked unfocused.

Possible concussion.

Steve closed his eyes. Clint was going to die in front of him, and he couldn't do anything about it. He couldn't let Hue have the code; what Hue would do with it would be wrong, and the effects of it would be devastating, and the damage would be partially Steve's fault. What would that make him; a person who was willing to sacrifice others for the sake of the people he cared about?

It would make him no different than Hue.

Steve never felt so helpless. To be responsible for the death of thousands of agents or to watch Clint shot in the head.

"Rogers, I want you to give me the code."

Steve shook his head not looking at Hue.

Hue smiled, "I want you to give me the code."

"Steve, give it to me." He repeated, his arm steady.

Steve met Hue's eyes, "No."

The hands gripping Steve's arms tightened.

"DO YOU THINK I'M JOKING ABOUT SHOOTING HIM?" Hue shoved the gun closer to Clint's head, and his finger tightened.

Steve closed his eyes but then forced them open and caught Clint's eyes. If this was Clint's last moments he would spend them making sure Clint didn't die alone.

Clint looked determined. He had faced death too many times before to be truly frightened of it now.

The moment stretched and extended while Steve waited for the shot from Hue's gun. It became an agony that played across Steve's nerves; he both longed for the end and dreaded it.

Steve flinched when he heard the shot.

But it wasn't what he expected.

Slowly Hue collapsed, a perfect hole filling with black blood in the middle of his forehead.

All the energy building in Steve forced him to move. He broke free from the hands grasping at him and grabbed an arm flipping the man to the ground. All the pent up energy came out, and he fought, everything moving slowly to the speed of his thoughts and what he had to do. He swung a leg around and knocked the other to the ground. Steve punched him in the face. Breathing heavily Steve looked up. No one else was a threat.

Clint still knelt. His face showed nothing of what he was feeling. His breath was calm until it started shaking, and his chest rose and fell with deep shuddering breaths.

Steve felt the same. This situation was far removed from their usual fighting.

He looked over to where the sniper's bullet had shot through the window. The hole lined up with a building in the distance, and on its roof he could see a black figure moving.

He walked over to Hue's body.

It was never easy to take a life. Killing was power and horror mixed together; it was addictive and disgusting. Steve sometimes wondered if the lives he took during the war tainted him, made him less human, because killing was ugly, and in it people don't matter.

He wondered whether the sniper felt the same.

The room's door slammed open and agents streamed into the room, their guns flicking right and left covering everything.

The noise was almost overpowering after the quiet. Steve helped Clint up and walked with Clint's arm over his shoulder.

_People matter_. _Everyone does._

* * *

**Sorry about the long gap, and thank you, Reader, for continuing with this story. I hope that you enjoy this chapter.**


	6. The Ghost of You

**[The Ghost of You]**

He was awake again.

There was only one reason for him to be so; they needed him to fix a problem. Fixing that problem generally meant killing one or more people.

People.

It was easier if he didn't think of them as people, not that it would stop him from squeezing the trigger, but despite everything Hydra had done to him he could still feel trickles of emotions deep in his chest. Hydra tried to control everything about him; sometimes they failed. But it didn't matter; just because he was somehow feeling…things didn't mean that they couldn't take that away from him when they found out. The emotions that he sometimes felt didn't help him anyway. They didn't stop him from doing his job and they certainly didn't stop Hyrdra's doctors from frying his brain.

Whenever the doctors caught a glimpse of anything real in his dark eyes, he would be put back into the chair, strapped down awaiting the pain, the blinding pain, followed by…nothing.

Everything that he might have once possessed was ripped away from him. He was nothing.

No, that wasn't true. He _was_ something. He was Hydra's. Hydra's killer, to be used and then put on ice. A weapon, a tool. Nothing more.

For his latest mission, they had positioned him on top of a tall build, given him his gun and target, and then told him to wait.

So he waited.

His wait wasn't long and eventually there was movement in the building directly across from him.

Through the scope of his rifle he could see fighting going on; the large windows that lined the room showed that his target had gained control of a computer room and was threatening the lives of two men.

His target was out of control; he could see the wild eyes of the man as he waved his pistol through the air. His target seemed to know, at least internally, that he wasn't going to make it out of this alive, but that didn't seem to stop him from trying.

His target had one man on his knees, alternating between pressing his gun to the man's head and waving it at other, larger man.

He let out a slow breath, pressing his gun against his shoulder and glaring through the scope. The man was going to make a move soon; he couldn't afford to wait much longer in the room. The Asset could see a stream of dark shapes making their way to the computer room from a few windows over. The two men had help coming, but the help wouldn't get there soon enough.

It didn't matter. The Asset wasn't here for the helpless men; he was there to kill his target and if that happened to save the two men's lives, well, it wasn't his problem. He didn't care one way or another.

The target's mouth opened and closed, soundlessly shouting words at his two victims; he was about to make a choice.

The target jabbed his pistol down at the kneeing man's head, ready to take the shot. He never did, though.

The Asset beat the target to the punch, his finger already tightening around his rifle's trigger. He didn't have to look through the scope to confirm that it was a clean shot through the target's head.

He stood up, not bothering to watch his target crumble to the ground with lifeless eyes. In a few quick motions, he broke down the rifle putting it carefully into the black bag provided. The bag went over his back and he left the roof area.

There was no regret in his chest, but there wasn't any victory at a job well done either. He was empty.

Killing meant nothing to him, but he was valued for it. It was the only thing he was good at, apparently.

Didn't matter. It wasn't his job to feel emotions. His job was finished, or at least it was until he was taken out of the ice and given his gun, ammo, and a target.

Until then he was nothing but an empty shell, waiting for direction.

* * *

**We're almost done; I have most of the next and final chapter done, and finally this story will have an ending. I'm still very sorry about the absence of chapters. I hate when writers do that and then I did it. Well, I have a lot more patience for slow stories now. **


	7. Carry On My Wayward Son

[**Carry On My Wayward Son**]

'Bucky is alive' became a mantra Steve repeated to himself after Bucky disappeared again. It was an unconscious thought that once he realized he was doing it, he couldn't stop it. He had to remind himself, because after so many losses Steve was afraid that this gain was a dream and that one day he'll wake up and Bucky will be dead. Again.

Steve couldn't live through that.

The first time had been bad enough.

Steve's apartment was still trashed and filled with bullet holes when Stark stepped over the broken door, leaned against its trim, and surveyed the mess. "Nice place, Cap."

Steve glanced up.

"Thanks. It means a lot coming from you." Steve said as sarcastically as he knew how.

Tony shrugged, "Sure."

Steve went back to piling broken shelves in a corner. "Is there a reason you're here, Tony?" Steve knew there was, he even could guess what it was, but he wasn't going to start it.

Tony settled more comfortably against the trim and looked at Steve as if he was a puzzle Tony wanted to figure out. "How long are you going to do this?"

Steve brushed by him with an armful. "Do what?"

Tony waved a hand. "You know what." His face twisted with distaste, and Steve realized just how much he wasn't going to like this conversation, "Look for the Winter Solider."

"You mean Bucky?"

"No," Tony said firmly, "He doesn't get a name. Who he was before is gone; he's not Bucky."

Anger burned in his stomach, and he held on tightly to it afraid of what he might say if he let it out. Steve yanked on a particularly stuck board. "Sounds like you're talking about a machine."

Tony ignored what Steve was saying, continuing as if he knew what Steve would say and considered it to be stupid and Steve to be naïve. "He killed too many people to come back from that. What he's gone through has changed him, and who he was before doesn't exist anymore. You have to understand that before-," Tony stopped.

"Before what, Tony?" The board started to splinter under the pressure.

"Before he does something you can't forgive him for."

Steve paused and looked at Tony. Did he really think Steve was that naïve? "I'm not saying come back—the Bucky I knew is gone and I'll be lucky if he ever remembers my name. I'm saying heal and change again."

Silence. It was the pause before something bitter. Whatever patience Tony had was used up; Steve tensed in preparation with what was coming. He pressed his fingers harder into the wood.

"He killed my parents." Tony said sharply. "Don't tell me that doesn't mean anything."

"He can change again."

Tony threw up his hands. "Forgive me if I don't believe his change of heart—how many years has he spent as the Winter Soldier? Is that something you come back from?"

The board came loose with the crack of agonized wood. Steve threw it in the corner.

Tony's voice was even. "How often do people really change? They have a life-changing experience and then what? It lasts for a week, a year? Long enough to write a book and be on a few talk shows?"

Steve looked at Tony. "What about you?"

Tony shook his head. "Nonono, you don't get to compare me to a killer. I save people."

"Exactly. You changed for the better, Tony, and you know why. Because meeting the right person and having the right experience can change a person. Not everything is falling into chaos."

Tony snorted. "It's a law of the universe –everything goes towards entropy."

Steve threw down another armful of boards and faced Tony.

"Not if we build it up. Life is meaningless if we're not building towards something." He held Tony's eyes, Tony needed to understand. "He made a choice for the better when he saved me from that river."

"Steve, you can't trust him."

"I trust him to make the right choice in the end."

"He doesn't even know what the right choice is!"

"I trust him."

Tony didn't say anything, his stubborn silence repeating clearly that he considered what Steve was saying to be wrong, and after standing in Steve's doorway for a few more beats, he left as Steve started working again. Steve stopped and watched Tony's figure vanish through the doorway and listened to his retreating steps walk down the stairs and out the door.

* * *

The tension between Tony and Steve lasted as neither of them would budge from their positions, and the longer it continued the more uncertain Steve was that things would ever be completely smoothed over. It became blatant to their other team members that Tony and Steve were fighting. About what wasn't too difficult to figure out. But that wasn't the problem right now.

Hydra was still operating even though they had been severely crippled after the collapse of project Oversight and the death of Alexander Pierce.

Kill one head and two more grow in its place. Steve hated how true it felt right now.

Steve growled as the bullets flew over his head. His back was to a low wall and the bullets that kept him pinned came from an A-K 47. Not that what kind of gun it was meant anything. A-Ks were notoriously easy to use and anyone could and did use them.

The man currently using it fired, spraying the wall with a steady flow of bullets. He also might have been shouting something about 'death to the Avengers' and 'cut off one head and two more grow in its place.' Steve wasn't really sure. He'd stopped listening after the Hydra agent repeated those phrases again and again like his mind was stuck on them and couldn't muster the brain power to come up with something else. Chips of cement flew around Steve, and he settled lower to avoid the bullets. He would never get used to bullets being fired at him.

Hydra was still entrenched in New York and finding all their hideaways was like digging up a particularly tenacious weed whose roots kept going down even after pulling up a piece of it.

Natasha ducked for cover besides Steve as he readied himself to run out into the stream of automatic gunfire. "This has got to stop." She stated as she crouched beside him.

Steve hesitated, his eyes wide in disbelief. He didn't bother to ask what had to stop. He knew she meant the fight between him and Tony. "Now? You want to do this now?"

She shrugged. "Now is as good a time as any." She swung her gun above their cover and shot twice rapidly before crouching down again. The gunfire stopped.

Steve paused, "No. It's really not." As if to underline his words, gunfire started up again from a different direction. He breathed deeply before spinning over the top of their cover and holding his shield against the wild shots that came at him. He ran at the Hydra agent, the bullets flattening as they hit his shield. The man's eyes widening just as Steve reached him and punched the man in the face with his shield. As the man crumpled to the ground Natasha appeared beside him. She stepped deftly out of the way when Steve's reflexes nearly took her head off with his shield.

He gritted his teeth. "Don't do that."

She eyed him and continued on with her train of thought. "You need to get this out and over with."

Her mind was on one track. "Fine." He paused. "Tony isn't listening to me, and he doesn't trust that people will make the right choices."

"Is he wrong not to?"

Steve looked at her. "People are better than he gives them credit."

"Some aren't."

"Bucky is."

"Maybe."

Steve shook his head. "Right now Bucky is looking for a way to understand what happened to him and to somehow be able to find forgiveness."

Surely Natasha out of all of them would understand that.

Natasha's eyes snapped to look over his shoulder. She shot once at the man behind him and holstered her gun. She looked at him, and her eyes seemed to soften from her customary hard look. She nodded.

Over their radio Tony's voice sounded. "If the old man can get a move on, there is a group on the floor below that he might be able to get to in this century if he moves his super powered butt."

"Enough with the grandpa jabs." Steve muttered.

Natasha gave him an exasperated look.

* * *

It was a whisper at the back of Steve's head, a silent recognition he wasn't even aware he made. Steve knew it was Bucky, but every time he turned to go after him only empty space alive with the impression of someone being there moments before.

A few days later the feeling of being watched vanished. Steve didn't know whether to be happy that Bucky was away from New York or worried that Bucky was not here, because he wasn't anywhere. The feeling of being watched was almost comfortable as it meant that Bucky was close like he used to be, and the absence of it was uncomfortable, similar to what Steve had felt before when he'd thought Bucky was dead.

Steve always knew that if Bucky wasn't dead he would eventually look for Steve, but the moment of meeting was anticlimactic, especially when Steve was expecting Bucky to come in a fire of bullets.

Bucky was waiting on the sidewalk outside of Steve's apartment his baseball cap pulled low over his face. Steve's breath caught. He still was getting used to the idea of his friend being alive, and after searching for him without finding him Steve wanted to hold on to him before he vanished again. At the same time he held back afraid that Bucky would vanish again if Steve pushed. Steve let the building's front door shut behind him.

He glanced around before jogging across the road. Bucky visibly tensed when he got closer.

"It's good to see you again."

Bucky looked as if he wasn't sure that was the case. He grunted. Steve couldn't decide if it was in agreement or just to make a sound to move past the disagreement.

He waited for Bucky to say something. As much as he wanted it to be true he didn't think Bucky was here because he remembered Steve as a friend.

Bucky shifted uncertainly, looking like he was going to bolt, before coming to a decision and standing still. "I need to talk to you."

Steve still waited.

"Not here."

Steve hated the distrust he could see in Bucky's eyes. "There's a diner around the corner."

Bucky turned abruptly and started down the sidewalk without waiting for Steve to agree.

The diner was a hole in the wall place on the corner that reminded Steve of the past; retro was what they called it. The bar curved around the back wall of the diner marking the staffs' territory and separating the kitchen from the rest of the place. It didn't have room for much, and the owners made the space work with as many retro bar stools as they could cram around the bar. Small booths and tables lined the walls, and windows opened up the diner to the world.

It felt familiar as if Steve was rediscovering something warm and comfortable.

Steve slide into the booth, the material of the seat slick underneath him. Bucky was already in the seat opposite him.

Steve didn't want to say anything to break the silence that stretched between them, afraid that saying something would shatter the trust that Bucky was showing him. He stared at Bucky.

Bucky shifted uncomfortably under Steve's eyes; he didn't seem to know how to start either, and the silence continued.

A waitress flipped open her book next to their table and smiling brightly asked, "What would you like?"

Steve cleared his throat. "Just coffee."

She glanced at Bucky expectantly.

"Water."

He hated the distrustful way Bucky looked at him as if he saw Steve as the enemy. The knowledge twisted uncomfortably in his stomach because it was wrong. Bucky was his oldest and closet friend. The way he was looking at Steve now was one reserved for an enemy turned into an almost friend, and every time he caught it he felt as if he lost Bucky again.

Something must have shown on his face, because Bucky all but snarled, "Stop looking at me like that."

The silence that followed was broken by Steve. "You don't understand, I thought you were dead."

Bucky's hands resting on the table clenched together. "The person you know is dead—I'm not him. Not anymore." The last part was almost whispered.

Bucky leaned forward his eyes staring into Steve's making sure that his point was understood. "Stop looking for him."

"I refuse to believe that. You saved me just like you've always done." Steve needed to make Bucky understand, he leaned forward eager. " I know that your memory is gone and with it a large part of who you are, but that doesn't mean that it's gone forever and all that's left is the Winter Soldier. "

Bucky slammed his metal arm onto the table and hissed, "I am the Winter Soldier. That is the one thing I am sure of. You can't look at me and not see him." His arm relaxed and fell back to his lap as he stared at it. "Without him I don't know who I am."

Steve thought he hated Hydra before. He had a general feeling of 'they are wrong and must be stopped,' and during the war that impression was reinforced by what he found. But this? This went beyond personal.

He was almost growling. "They made you into him; Hydra forced you to kill and took away your memories. They took away your ability to make choices when they brainwashed you; how can you judge someone who isn't in control of themselves?"

Bucky wanted to accept what Steve was saying, Steve could see it in his eyes, but something was stopping him from letting it.

"I wanted to kill; it wasn't someone else who pulled the trigger." Bucky bared his teeth. "It was me. I saw their faces when they died." Bucky laughed a low mocking sound that Steve hated it. "I actually believed that I was helping people by pulling that trigger. It was my purpose."

"Bucky, you can't take that responsibility." How could Bucky not believe it?

"Why? Why not? Because I didn't know what I was doing? But I do. I remember killing."

"And you are going to have to live with that for the rest of your life, but that's not the end."

Bucky's face twisted, and Steve could see how far he was in despair and how much he wanted to believe Steve.

"You have to face what you did. Right now all you feel is guilt and shame, and it's overwhelming. All you want to do is hide your face and wait to die because that's better somehow than facing your guilt. You'd rather live with the fear than face what happened and maybe get through it. Because the only way out is through, and the only way guilt doesn't have a hold on you is if you accept what you did."

Steve knew regret. Everyone does, he thought. But working through it is the only way to heal, and somehow he had to make Bucky realize that.

"Your past actions don't define you, because what you did in the past can be changed in the future. You can find redemption, and the first step is facing your actions and seeing them for what they truly are." He leaned in, "You were brainwashed."

Bucky seemed to digest Steve's words as he leaned back in the booth. "Why do I keep coming to you? I know nothing about you, yet you won't leave me alone. I'm with you in pictures I don't remember, and I saved you when I was told to kill you."

Steve didn't know why that was so strange, because even if Bucky didn't remember, those memories happened and Bucky had to know that on some level if he kept coming to Steve.

Bucky's gaze turned speculative. "I remember seeing you on a mission before."

Steve's thoughts came to an abrupt halt. What?

"An offshoot of Hydra went rogue, and I was told to clean it up before they destroyed our operation within SHIELD. I remember looking through my scope at you. I could have waited until…." Bucky didn't finish, but Steve knew he meant to say, 'until the other was shot.'

Steve's mind supplied 'until Clint was shot.'

"But I didn't want to."

Steve smiled, "You helped me."

Bucky was silent, and Steve wondered if he was actually accepting that Hydra hadn't completely destroyed his humanity. Maybe.

The silence stretched between them, but it wasn't the same uncomfortable quiet that it was before. Now it was almost friendly.

It was in the silence Steve started to wonder where the waitress was. He could see when Bucky stiffened in anticipation that he noticed it too. Bucky met his eyes.

"Did you tell anyone?" He demanded.

Steve was insulted that Bucky would even consider that he would betray Bucky like that. "No, I wouldn't do that to you."

Bucky made as if to move and Steve grabbed his hand before he could get up. "You can't keep running."

Bucky growled, "Watch me."

"They are going to catch up with you, and when they do it's going to be bad. Maybe you should show some trust."

"You don't understand. When people look at me, they see a weapon. That's all they will ever see, and I would rather die than be used like that again." Bucky said it simply as if it was the only truth for him, and Steve couldn't reject what he said, not when he thought back to SHIELD's recent escapade or Ross' treatment of Banner. There were those in power willing to do anything to reach their ends.

He let go of Bucky.

They probably had a few more seconds before armed men burst in and gunfire filled the room. He held Bucky's gaze. "Go."

Steve noted with a part of his brain unoccupied with planning that Bucky hadn't even questioned him as he moved towards the diner's door while Steve continued to sit. Maybe Bucky was willing to trust him.

His line of thought was interrupted when a couple from the next booth over pulled out their guns and started shouting at Bucky: 'to stay where you are.'

More agents streamed out from the kitchen. Bucky was only a few steps from the door when the first shots were fired. He wasn't going to get away. Steve had to do something.

Bucky ducked out of the way of the bullets flying past as Steve stood up and stepped in the line of fire, using his body as a shield.

"Stop."

Shooting at Bucky wasn't the way to help him.

He thought perhaps that standing in their way would be enough to stop the oncoming firefight, and for a moment it was. All the agents had frozen, staring at him as if he had betrayed the very foundations that America stood for. As if the bald eagle flew straight at their faces. He quirked a smile, his reputation was good for something; although, he was surprised that the people in charge didn't brief their agents that Captain America might not give up his friend for 'the greater good'. Maybe they didn't believe he would protect Bucky against them, because they were the good guys.

As the agents started to get over their shock, he glanced behind him. Bucky was gone.

* * *

Tony had looked at him with such disappointment that Steve almost felt ashamed, and now sitting across the uncomfortable metal table from him Steve could see anger mixed in with the disappointment.

"Why?"

The word was spoken quietly dropped like an anvil into the silence that had stretched between them. Tony didn't have to say anything else; Steve knew exactly what he meant and what he wasn't saying. It was a continuation of the ongoing argument he had with Tony that had been repeated over too many times to change the other's mind. They were both too firmly entrenched.

"They were going to shoot."

Tony laughed harshly, "Ah, newsflash, Cap. He's dangerous."

"Well, so are you."

"That's different. I'm not a psycho crazy person who's been brainwashed."

Steve leaned backward in the metal chair. "He's not crazy, and shooting isn't going to help. Besides can you truly guarantee that he's is going to face justice? And not be locked up for the rest of his natural life or worse for killings that he did when he wasn't in control? Where is the justice in that? He can't be blamed for what Hydra forced him to do, because like you said, he was brainwashed."

Steve frowned, "This isn't about justice for you, is it?"

Tony snorted, "Stop making this about me. It isn't, and being an old Hydra brainwashed agent gives me all the more reason to put him someplace he can't hurt anymore people."

"It's been months since Hydra fell, and Bucky has been running around without anyone controlling him, in all that time nothing. If this is about keeping people safe, it's unnecessary. He's already made the choice not to continue to be a killer."

Steve continued, "I thought the Bucky I knew was gone forever, but that's not true. He's still in there, and if we give him enough time, he'll come back. I don't know the Winter Soldier, but Bucky I know, and he is worth saving."

He looked at Tony almost pleading for him to understand. "He's close enough to be my brother, and I can't give up on him."

Tony rubbed his hand over his face. "I'm tired of arguing with you. I'm done."

Abruptly he pushed back his chair and walked out the door. It shut behind him leaving a desolation that Steve could feel, and as he waited for what would come next he stared at the empty place Tony left behind.

"You don't understand, Tony. I would do the same for you."

_Because…_

_People matter. _

The end

* * *

**Thank you for reading and actually finishing this story. It's been fun writing it, and if you have any reactions to this story good or bad please let me know.**

**Also, thank you brynerose for pointing it out, this chapter falls just after Captain America: Winter Solider. I wrote most of it before Civil War came out, which means that I assumed a couple things I really shouldn't have, like Tony knows about Bucky killing his parents. **


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